Simple Lives
by The Bad Kitty
Summary: An inn overlooking a dilapidated town. The beach is beautiful regardless. Ordinary people leading ordinary lives. The youth. The elder. The owner. The wife. The maid. The meaning of greatness, those striving for it, and those who have lost it.
1. Simple Lives Prologue

Simple Lives  
  
The town of LeGuin is on the northern shore of the Centra continent. It consists of a few hideaway buildings on what is mostly a deserted beach. The people here live a quiet life much like the pacifists of Fisherman's Horizon but without the patchwork of technological hodgepodge. Once the town was beautiful, having been settled shortly after the Second Sorceress War, and was a tourist town for eager young archeologists and thrill-seekers to discover and plunder an ancient race. A majority of the town is decorated in faux-Centran symbols and architecture. Pillars and archways and the occasional machine-pressed statue don the trappings of many an abandoned shop. The three dozen or so buildings can loosely be described as "rustic", but fall more under the line of dilapidated. The businesses and conglomerates that hoped to make a quick gil left after the tourism dried up, leaving the town in the care of the inhabitants who cared to stay and who didn't care for ancient Centra-whatevers. The people living here seem to have adapted to their new environment: the blasted, ruined remains the of Centran continent is a remarkable reflection of the drabness of their lives. This is a place where the old come to die. 


	2. Simple Lives SYNE

SYNE  
  
People don't know what they're missing. Take this town for instance, it's filled with those who can't cut it in society: outcasts, rejects. They can't even fit in with those crazies at FH. Dead, dry, decayed. The weakness in this town only makes me stronger. Makes me wish with every stinking breath I have to never end up like this. Complacent geezers. They probably ran and hid and cowered during the Sorceress War. Clearly not SeeD material. I wish I was old enough to be in Garden, old enough to be SeeD, but Hyne I wasn't even born yet and wouldn't be for some years. Sometimes I get the feeling that the I was born too late in the world. For the last seventeen years there have been no crises, no power hungry sorceresses, and only a couple of wars. (but those were just political squabbles and don't really count)  
  
I'd be fighting alongside Squall Leonhart and the rest of the Fated, hacking away at monster and sorceress alike, saving the world and getting the girl, all before dinner to boot. But instead I'm in this shack of a town at the end of the world at the behest of my parents. All because I failed my field test. My instructor said I needed to "re-evaluate the reason for wanting to become a SeeD, including the responsibility and serious nature of this profession." Ha, like I need some bookworm shut-in telling me I need an attitude adjustment to be SeeD. To make Mommy and Daddy happy, I hopped on the first boat out of New Balamb to wherever, I didn't care. Guess I should have been more specific; I'd rather be anywhere but here. The next boat out of this hick town doesn't show up till next week. Hyne help me.  
  
The inn I'm staying at is the only up-to-code structure in a 100 kilometer radius, and that's only for the fact it has running water and can pick up some of the low frequency channels on the reciever. Like all the other buildings here it's designed in the same hideous baroque style that dominates the architecture in town. The owner, a nearly handicapped man of ancient age and laid back attitude, claims that the inn is converted from the only genuine Centran structure in the area: a small ruin that was cleared out by Garden long ago. He got the name, My Blue Heaven, from another ruin he investigated when he was younger and had dreams of being an archeologist. He tells me all this while making morning coffee and idle chatter. I don't care for either. I nod as politely as I can while rolling my eyes. He's telling me about his failed attempt as an archeologist. I don't even know his name.  
  
The owner's wife walks in and interupts us, chastising him about lax morning duties and something about the help. I could kiss her for saving me if only she weren't the most horrible old shrew I'd ever had the privalge of not running through with my gunblade. Everything about her screams "severe". The half moon glasses, the too tight bun, every button buttoned, every wrinkle ironed out. If she's trying to be the friendly and genial host, she's in the wrong business. I pity the old man even more. A failed dream, a sinking venture, a bitch for a wife. I grab my gunblade and head outside. The town is shit, but at the very least the beach is something to experience. Empty and forlorn with not a person in sight, the shore is clay red and the particles tint the sea this odd colour. I like to think that all the blood that was spilt from the Lunar Cry an era ago soaked and stained the ground, but it's probably just leftover mineral. It's the only passionate thing on this whole damned continent. It's also the perfect place to practice a gunblade.  
  
Ordinary people leading ordinary lives. The owner and his wife, they are ordinary people. They know no greater glory, fight for no greater good, nothing to look forward to but a nice deep undisturbed grave. Like sheep to the pasture they graze away their lives oblivious to the world outside their self-made fences. I hold nothing but contempt for them. I pass the hired help on the way out.  
  
Now there's the epitome of ordinary, a person whom you can only describe as "nice" in a not-so-nice kind of way. She has a muted face that would be pretty for her age if she wasn't so complacent and she's got this hazy quality around her, like she's going to disappear from all existance before your very eyes. Unnoticable, unremarkable, carrying a pile of freshly cleaned and folded towels. I wonder how she can stand her life, having to clean up after people all day, everyday. The hair underneath the perpetual cleaning cap could be blond, but most likely is dyed in a futile effort to keep the grey away. I notice for the first time she wears glasses; plain, non-descript glasses that frame her wrinkled face. She notices me and gives a weak smile that is polite and complementary and not at all sincere. It irritates me for some reason.  
  
Even the owner, sorry excuse for an individual he is, once had dreams and aspirations. I'm certain that this woman who's more than twice my age has never had an independent thought in her life. This woman...she's entirely forgettable, like memory itself has forsaken her. Even her conversations are hard to recall. I think I first met her yesterday, or was it the day before? It doesn't matter. All I remember is that she works for residence of the small room the owner had graciously given her. She thinks that the owner is "nice", and that his wife will "get used to her". I found out that she's been working here for seventeen years. She's probably the owner's mistress because his wife's a cold-hearted bitch. It doesn't matter, they're background faces, the help, the owner, the wife. Hyne, this whole stupid town is a background! I doubt I'll remember it when I'm a SeeD and commander of New Balamb Garden.  
  
I scrape my gunblade along the ground and throw a winning smile at Miss Teresa, who's sitting infront of her room reading some weathered hardcover novel. Miss Teresa is one of those people who can almost pass for a worthwhile individual. She's feisty and somewhat intelligent from having her nose stuck in a book all the time. Slightly corpulent, but in that jolly sort of way. She reminds me of my grandma. She has a Balamb accent like me, but much less pronounced. I asked her where in Balamb she was from and her answer was that she used to work in Garden. I don't believe her. What's a person from Garden doing in a place like this? Apparently she decided to retire quietly and has rented a room at My Blue Heaven indefinitely, or until she croaks from too many hotdogs. I don't think this place has ever heard of hotdogs. Nevertheless, despite these two things about her, she remains unextraordinary. But she's a Balamb native, so I should at least remember her name.  
  
The shore is only a 15 minute walk away from the inn, and I take my time. The trip through town is uneventful and I once again silently mock the ridiculous architecture of LeGuin. People in town are just now waking up and the smell of bitter Centran coffee permeates from one or two buildings. Other than that, there's nothing rememberable of the town or it's inhabitants. The buildings stop and I notice there is nothing but sand and dunes. Nothing will attack me here and I'm almost dissapointed. Enroaching civilization on the lost continent of Centra forced most of the dangerous native creatures to withdraw inland. You won't even find a red bat unless you're really out looking for one. The beach is the same as when I had left it yesterday: still red, still empty. The only change being the breakers crashing over each other. I swipe at the sea air with my gunblade. I wonder how people will remember me when I'm famous? 


	3. Simple Lives TERESA

TERESA  
  
"Tell me about Balamb Garden again."  
  
I look up at my book at her. She is quietly (always quietly, always perfectly) folding and hanging the towels in the bathroom. It's not a question, but then, I can never say no to her. I acquiese.  
  
"Well now, that takes me back." I shut the book, careful to put my bookmarker facing my current page. "I assume you mean the old Balamb Garden, I've never been to the new one, that fandangled thing."  
  
She nods her head automatically, careful not to take her eyes, nor the major part of her attention away from her work. It's scrubbing now, a demeaning job if I ever saw one. Much more demeaning than say, slaving as a cafeteria worker. I try to lessen her load by cleaning up whenever I can and not leaving too much of a mess.  
  
"It was like a pretty blue conch shell spiraling into the air. I was always amazed at the artistry of it all. I'd never seen anything like it, and no matter how much they update the systems or load it down with new guns, it won't ever capture the majesty of the original. It almost seemed alive, organic in a way, everything was curved and elegant like a woman. The old headmaster used to joke about it all the time." There is reminiscence in my voice.  
  
"What happened to it?" It's a question this time.  
  
"Originally designated for scrap after it was deemed obsolete. However a few influencial and wealthy benefactors, most of them admirers of the Fated, decided it would be best used as a reminder, so that's what they did. Now it's a memorial to all their achievements. Hmmph, a memorial to people who aren't even dead. Sure their glory days are over, but that doesn't mean they're useless and should be relegated to the geriatric ward." My indignation is obvious, and while I should have checked myself, memories of the past always make me excitable.  
  
"What did you do at Garden, Teresa?" She is almost done with the cleaning and stands up to pack the supplies and move on to the next degrading task. She stands straight up, straighter than I've ever seen her and surveys her work, posing. She pushes the glasses up the bridge of her nose with one finger and seems satisfied. She turns to face me and gives me a weak smile, she is slouching somewhat. "All done." There is no accomplishment in that statement.  
  
"Nothing important at all, dearie, I was one of those forgettable people! Hahaha." And it's true. I doubt anyone would remember, why would they? Afterall, important people lead important lives. They are remembered and honoured and dignified. Or at least, they should have been. "Buh bye, Isti." She nods, and leaves.  
  
I pick my book of my lap, A Case Study of Guardian Force Induced Memory Loss, and make my way to the make shift porch infront of my room. Isti is still on my mind. I wonder why she remains here, just as I have done a hundred times before, ever since I first arrived at LeGuin, hoping to lose myself among the faceless. She always answers that she is content; not happy, content. I can only accept her answer.  
  
There is a scraping on the floor and I look up to see that young man, Syne, grinning that fool's grin of his. A SeeD in the works, and from the looks of it, he needs a lot of work. The first thin he needs to lose is the superiority complex, the second thing is that outdated gunblade. Does he think he's Squall Leonhart? He walks away and I'm wishing for Kinneas' rifle to give him one in the keister. He's off to swing away that gunblade of his again. On my daily walk along the beach I spotted him practicing his "forms", if you can call it that. His practice is more like an elaborate, flowery dance, that is about as dangerous and terrifying as the Galbadian ballet troupe. He couldn't even scratch a grat with the show he's pulling off down there.  
  
I return to my book: Initial exposure to Guardian Forces produces memory loss at the very onset of junctioning. The first to be affected are the latent childhood memories that the brain has stored and accumulated. The effect is not noticable to the recipient of the Guardian Force and it is only through thorough questioning that an absence of memory is even acknowleged. Continued exposure to Guardian Forces is too dangerous to test on live subjects and those that have had prolonged junctions (e.g. the Fated) have refused to answer any questions on their experiences.  
  
It's too nice of a morning to be stuck reading such studious material, so I tuck the book in my lap and simply enjoy the morning. Even here at My Blue Heaven, the shore is still visible. It's situated on top the highest hill in the area, which honestly isn't that high. It's high enough to overlook the town, with it's guady trappings. I'm glad Bill and Greta decided to purchase this inn.  
  
Bill and Greta, an anomaly if I ever found one. He doesn't take things seriously enough, she takes them too seriously. He likes the summer where the heat gets hot enough to melt your face, while she prefers the winters that freeze the already battered ground and causes frostbite to exposed digits. It's like they can never compromise on anything. When I first arrived here they were courteous enough around me and managed to keep their personalities in check. Musn't drive away the cash cow, after all. After I had situated, they reverted to what they are now. She nags, he procrastinates. It's a vicious cycle.  
  
At first I thought that Bill and Isti were having an affair. He was awfully nice to her in a manner unbefitting a married man. I later discovered that he flirts with anybody who'll listen to his glory days as an archeologist, once even with me. Oh, scandalous! If nothing else, Isti is a good listener, but only for the fact that she doesn't seem to posses opinions of her own. Or if she did, she's never expressed them.  
  
continued...  
  
Well, that was my first foray into FFVIII fanfiction. It's slightly unconventional in that the Liberi Fatali aren't even featured, just noted as a historical note. The timeline, incase it was unclear is that is is several decades after the end of the game and a new, perhaps blander, world has arisen.  
  
I planned the work to be split into five parts, the first two presented here, each part has a labeled narrator in first person.  
  
The fic itself is less of a plot centered story and more of a character study as well as a test of my own writing skill which is rusty after so many years of neglect. 


	4. Simple Lives GRETA

GRETA  
  
There is a picture of Deling City by my dresser. It is an aerial shot, showing off her Hyne's Day best, oblivious to the rest of the world. For those of us who remember, Deling City was once the jewel of the world. Even covered in grime and solidified smog from the constant traffic of buses, and the nearby factories that supply the rest of the world with Galbadian delights. Deling City is the only place in the world that has more vehicles than people. Leave something in place long enough, say a couple of weeks, and you would no longer be able to recognize it from the blackened, dusty sheen it would accumulate. Only the weekly buffing keeps the city in outwardly pristine condition for the endless supply of tourists and dignitaries who came to experience the lights and shadows of Deling City. Once a year, every Hyne's day, the city is given a thorough face lift; the lights shine brighter, the liquor flows freer, and the prices rise higher, in this celebration of jubilation and excess. Confetti, instead of grime, covers the streets, and if you're not careful might end up in a meal or a drink. Deling City knows how to throw a proper Hyne's day.  
  
Being a lady of class and prestige in Galbadia meant long lessons on etiquette, ceremony, and general snobbery. Friends were those of similar economic background who could benefit you most in the future. The world as we knew it began and ended within the confines of the city gates. Time was delineated by when one party ended and another one started. I suppose I would have been happy. Happiness, after all, is not knowing the world, it is accepting the world you know. Why did I throw it away?  
  
Deling city is a city of light and shadows. The almost constant blasting of smog and other pollutants high in the atmosphere has caused an extended period of night. The sun rises and sets in a span of 6 hours. All this has done is extend the nightlife in Deling City an extra few hours. Who needs the sun when the fluorescent glow of buildings warms and lights your way more than nature ever could have. Light and Shadows. A city of illusions and mirages too fool and entrance the mind with fluorescent beauty. All this beauty has a price. Her citizens are slowly choking to death in a fog that infests and corrodes their lungs, slowly, patiently. A baby born in Deling City and having lived there their entire life, never leaving once, has an expected maximum lifespan of sixty. Nobody minds, or cares. I don't know if it's psychologically ingrained, but most of Deling City's residents would rather die than grow old. The smog can almost be seen as a blessing.  
  
I am turning sixty next month. I look younger than I really am. My friends are long dead and gone, either from the war, natural causes, or a capsule of cyanide when the earth refuses to take you. I would have met a similar fate, if not for Bill.   
  
Vinzar Deling was a man with a dream. An aged man by our standards, he single handedly forged Galbadia from a large but inconsequential duchy, entrenched in too much industry for it's own good, to the most glorious country in the world. And Deling City, it's capital became a beacon of achievement. The city's name remains unchanged despite decades after his death and numerous petitions by a liberal minority. He called it Aclamere; his dream, I mean. An ancient Cetran word that means, "to come home." He spoke of the past and the future, how the two could be one and the same, how we are the recipients of a legacy of glory and brilliance. And he built this city and had in the middle a massive arc of triumph of Centran design, a symbol of unity and victory. We walked under that arc as children, holding hands and singing songs, as one unified body. And then we made war.  
  
Bill was a junior archeologist who helped the excavation into the Centran ruins that Vinzar Deling was personally funding and leading. Deling had an avid interest in Centran occult and had his team of treasure seekers and grave robbers scouring the continent in search of lost power. A womanizer and a scoundrel, Bill was reckless, crude, and daring under his tan skin and ill-fitting tuxedo. All the women of course were in love with him, myself included. I loved him because he was something different from the usual pale-bred men we have here, and he loved me because I was rich and beautiful. Wining and dining, he'd tell me with only a little bit of arrogance how much better of the excavation would be if he were in charge. I believed him, and threw a vast amount of my fortune and followed him down to a barren, forsaken land.  
  
The Sorceress, that's what Deling called her as he presented her to the city, and presented the city to her. They found her in Centra, the rumours say, and freed her from the confines of her ruined existence. The city cheered till they couldn't hear themselves think. They cheered, forgetful of the previous sorceress who almost destroyed the world. They cheered, even as the man they knew and loved as a father to the empire crumpled to the floor like a rag doll. They cheered, as Galbadia made war on the rest of the world.  
  
I would have cheered as well had I remained. Instead I was hunched over a glowing black and white receiver, wishing to go home to all that was familiar and not see another cave or empty shell of a building ever again. The novelty, his novelty, had worn off. This was no longer the dashing adventurer with a tale or three of lost islands and dragons, and I was no more the cultured lady he had met at an upper class banquet. What remained was a man, puny and striving for any glory, and a woman, the thin veneer of society ripped away leaving only the weak non-individual. Yet, despite all this, or perhaps because of it, I still loved him. It was a different kind of love; one that builds after all else is stripped.  
  
One can never stop loving one's country just as I can never stop loving Deling City. People have told me that the war was a bad war, but I didn't care. If Deling City was in it, then she made it brilliant, made the war meaningful. Glory to the people, forever and ever. Then the war was over, the sorceress gone, and the shambling wounded soldiers came home, while some didn't come home at all. Her walls were no longer shining, her beacons no longer lighted. All trains no longer lead to Deling City, a stigma from having warred on the rest of the world and lost. All she has left now is her pride hidden under caked layers of grime that is no longer washed away. An empty hollowed shell of it's former glory.  
  
An empty hollow shell, that's what it was. He said he found the perfect place, that it was cheap, reliable, and most importantly quiet. I like quiet, but sometimes I miss the bustle of a city or the honking and heavy choking exhaust of an automobile. We spent the rest of my money paying Garden to clean out the small ruined temple of any monsters. An inn. I told him we had no business running an inn, that he was too lazy, and I was not suited to serving people. He just laughed. At least, I berated him, hire someone who knows what they are doing.  
  
Whatever Deling City once was to the world is now lost and forgotten. Balamb Garden has usurped her position. It is to Balamb that they now flock, to see the Fated Children who saved the world, to gaze at the wonder of Centran magic, and Estharian technology coalesce into a graceful blue spiraling structure. I have seen the Garden in person. It has a halo of light, spiraling around it as if it is some heavenly structure. It is Balamb where the Hyne's day festivals are the talk of days to come, where the combined might of the Gardens and Esthar's circling space stations produce a show that would awe Hyne herself. It is Balamb that defeated the sorceress and that caused her to fall so long ago. I am bitter and resentful.  
  
I hate the new help. She's young and pretty. At least, pretty enough to catch the attention of my louse of a husband, and young enough to make me jealous. In other places she would hardly be worth a second glance, but here in LeGuin, among the lost and the lonely, she stands out, fresh and new. I have urged my husband plenty of times to get rid of her, to find someone else, but he says there is nothing wrong with her work, that he pities her, and to get to know her as I'd be sure to like her.   
  
It has been nearly two decades and I still do not like her. I can't even describe what I dislike about her. I keep waiting for the news that my husband, that Bill will leave me forever. I doubt he would leave the inn, though; he loves the place even if he does no work whatsoever. In reality I own half the inn, it is my money after all, and am not about to relinquish this place to that little hussy. Mentally I am preparing myself for a lifetime of bitter angst, that everyday I am going to wake up and face that woman and [I]my husband[/I] together, muttering under my breath that I made him what he is, I taught him everything.  
  
Except how to make me laugh when I'm in a foul mood, or remember our anniversary even when I myself have forgotten, or how to cook fish Galbadian style because I can't cook to save my own life.  
  
Five years ago I travelled back to Deling City. Business had been good and there was some money to take a short vacation. I made it in time for the Hyne's day festival. While the rest of the world marvelled at the newest spectacle displayed by Balamb (now New Balamb Garden), my city and I, both of us old and decrepit, watched the meager display of fireworks, lights, and confetti. The sun rises and sets normally now, Estharian technology cleared the atmosphere after a deadly contagion called Black Lung nearly killed all new born infants. The city is no longer lit enough to read by, the buses and trolleys have been replaced by more Estharian technology. Levitating platforms. Ridiculous.   
  
This morning he is making coffee, talking with that young man who showed up here with a gunblade in hand and not much else. The young man is trying to be a SeeD, more so he is from Balamb. I wish he would just leave. I yell something trivial, making sure to put in another remark about the maid, and the young man heads out. There is a familiar moment of silence, and in that span, he pours two cups of coffee. There is something familiar about the scent, and I only notice now that there is a childish smile on his face. He passes me a cup and sustains contact with my fingers a little bit longer than usual. The taste is heavy and black, a product of months of refinement that can only be produced by the coffee houses in Deling City. I savor every taste.  
  
There was a small concert at the Arc of Triumph, and once more I am a child holding hands and singing. Swipe at the wall with my finger and off comes layers of grime and dirt as well as layers of history. She's held up as well as I have. I found I am the oldest person at the festival; mini-skirts and trendy coats can be seen on those celebrating this Hyne's day. Balamb can have it's magnitude of fans and spectacles, they are all empty pretty little things. The small cheering crowd gazed up at the multitude of lights and glittering fireworks. Only I gaze up with love and affection. Only Deling City knows how to throw a proper Hyne's day.  
  
continue...  
  
Well, that was the most fun I've had writing a chapter in a long time and I'm extremely happy the way this part came out. Two more parts left and I'll probably post them together.  
  
Once again, comments, criticism, and flames welcomed 


End file.
